


Immaculate

by ExpatGirl



Series: Things That Will Probably Not Happen in Season 12 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, M/M, POV Mary Winchester, Prayer, breakfast sandwiches, eye trauma kind of, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7972642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/pseuds/ExpatGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You don’t think they’d take a bullet for each other? For you?”</i><br/> <br/><i>“I do,” she says, gently. “But that’s not what this is. This isn’t someone else pulling the trigger. This is you putting the gun in your mouth.” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Immaculate

There are voices in the hall. What they’re saying is indistinct, but it’s clear from the pitch of them that their owners are arguing. Deep voices, like a storm on a far off mountain. For a second, Mary’s sure she’s still dreaming. Any moment now she’ll see that frosted mirror, that looming figure with its eyes like gallows candles. Her own eyes drag open and no, it’s the same ceiling she’s seen for the last--she’s not sure how long. Time slips through her like she’s a sieve. She’s in bed. She turns her head and sees the space beside her is empty, though the blanket is disturbed.

Mary’s brows draw together in a frown. _John_ , she thinks, and almost calls. But this isn’t their room, and John never slept on that side, and…

It comes back to her and she sits up, looks down at her unmarked arms. She remembers the storm, as big as the whole world, that raged in her body, and then retreated, in the space between heartbeats. How she’d cried, and tried to bury those cries in the same place she buried all the others, and couldn’t. That pit was full. She’d been dragged out of it screaming, by the roots of her hair.

****

The whole time, he’d offered small, hopeful, frightened glances. _Tell me what you want to know_ he’d said. The answer had been “everything” and “nothing” at once, and all she could do was shake her head and curl her fingers tighter into his shirtfront and say “I don’t know”. Which probably wasn’t the right answer. When an angel of the Lord tells you to do something, you’re probably supposed to do it. She’s never been all that good at doing what she’s supposed to do, though. 

She cried until her head hurt, and he healed that too. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Cas said. “But, um. I...I’m not good at knowing when I’m supposed to lie for someone’s benefit.”

She’d let out a sound that might have been a laugh. “That means there’s a lot you shouldn’t tell me but you’re gonna anyway.”

“That’s what usually happens, yes.”

“I’d ask you if they’re happy,” Mary said. “But I already know the answer to that one. They’re hunters.”

He’d looked at her, and his eyes were fierce. “They saved the world,” Cas said. “They’re _heroes_.”

She nodded, feeling something heavy and dull settle in her. “Even worse,” she said, and started crying again.

He’d looked at her with panicked confusion. “Uh.” He swallowed. “Dean enjoys putting two words together to make new words.”

“What?”

“Like--a werepire. It’s a combination of ‘werewolf’ and ‘vampire’.” He shook his head. “In the end it was something else entirely, but...he was very excited by the prospect.”

“Okay.”

“He, uh, he spent twenty minutes describing a--a doughnut-croissant hybrid to me once.”

“That’s a thing?”

Cas nodded. “Yes, he was very taken with the idea.” He paused. “There’s also a muffin-croissant hybrid, apparently.” 

“I...I’ve had a Croissan’wich.”

“A combination of ‘croissant’ and ‘sandwich’.”

“Yeah.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “They were giving out free samples. They were...gonna add them to the menu, I think. Sam was nursing at the time so I was...I took three when they weren’t looking.”

“You...should talk about that with Dean.”

She laughed for real. “Okay, sure.” A deep breath. “What about Sam?”

“Oh, no. Sam finds Dean’s taste in food abominable.” Cas had loosened his grip on her, by then. She considered letting go of him, then decided against it. Better to get this all out of her system now and spare Dean. “Sam told me he developed an interest in nutrition and healthy eating when he went to Stanford, I suspect in reaction to the food he was obliged to eat when he was younger. Of course,” he said, shrugging, “Dean’s preference for high-calorie foods probably stems from a scarcity mindset.”

There was a lot there, in those sentences. Her head began to hurt again. She skipped over the words _obliged_ and _scarcity_ to settle on another. “Stanford?”

“It’s an institution of higher learning in California.”

“I know what Stanford is,” she said, pulling back to look at his face.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to imply--”

“No, no,” she said, grabbing on to him again. “I just meant: Sam went to Stanford?”

“Mm. He got a, uh, a ‘full ride’.”

“Sam got a full ride to...Stanford.” For the first time something stirred in the place where Sam resided, more like an idea than a person. The idea was beginning to grow solid, just a little, a cluster of cells clinging together. “That’s. That’s wonderful. I always knew they’d be smart. Dean was always so--inquisitive, I think’s the word. They got John’s brains.” She felt his hand in her hair again, and for an awful moment she thought he was going to say something kind and unbearable.

“You really should sleep,” he said instead.

He picked her up and carried her like she weighed nothing, and settled her in bed. There was a time she’d object to being treated like something fragile, but that time had long passed.

“Wait,” she said, as he moved away. “What you...Dean’s nightmares. Can you, um--can you help me with mine like you do his?”

“Uh.” Cas furrowed his brow and glanced away for a moment. “Perhaps not the, the exact same way.  ****But yeah, I can help you.” He walked to the other side of the bed and sat down. He reached out again, and then she knew nothing more.

****

She needs to get some clothes, Mary decides. This is a world that’s only inhabited by large men, and she’s been wearing Dean’s shirts and a pair of extremely confusing cut-off shorts for too long. The only thing that remotely fits is a set of clothes that she found hanging in the back of her closet: a pink flannel shirt, jeans, and a green t-shirt with a strange-looking cat on it. Whoever they belong to has obviously never given birth, and she gives up on attempting to button the top two buttons. 

She tries not to listen to the ongoing argument as she opens her door and makes her way toward the kitchen, but she can’t help it.  

“No, okay? You...can’t ask me to do that. Not to you.”

“But it’s for Sam,” Cas says, sounding confused.

“I get that. And, I--I appreciate that. I do. But I’m not gonna…” Silence here. Dean must have been gesturing. She flattens herself against the wall.

“Dean, he might be praying to me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course I don’t, because _I can’t hear anything_.”

“Oh yeah? And when was the last time you heard a prayer?”

More silence. “You don’t want the answer to that.” Mary shivers, trying to reconcile the ice curling through those words with the warm presence she had pressed herself against. Then, gentler: “A full recovery could take weeks. Months. We don’t have the luxury of time. This would be the fastest way.”

“Yeah, assuming nothing gets scrambled up in there and you end up going all _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ on me.”

A pause. She can practically see Cas frowning. “The risk is minimal.”

“ _Minimal_. I’m sorry, have you met us? We’re the all-singing-all-dancing embodiment of Murphy’s Law here.”

“If you’d rather not do it, then. Uh. We could…call on someone more skilled.”

“Uh-uh, no. No way.”

“Crowley…”

“Crowley knows how to _break_ people, not fix them.”

“The principles are the same.”

“Cas, believe me when I tell you, they’re not.” She hears Dean let out a heavy breath. “If they were, I’d...”

“What?”

“Nothing. We’re not...nobody’s sticking anything into anybody’s brain. Okay? I need you. In one piece. Please.”

“You saw my notes. I’m not in one piece as it is.”

“Cas…”

“So what’s a little more breakage?” Cas continues, mercilessly. “The risk is nothing compared to the potential gain.” There’s the sound of movement. “Dean. _Dean_ , you need to use every tool at your disposal here.”

A thud, like a fist on a table, startles Mary.

“Just,” Dean’s voice is tearstained. “Don’t. Don’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No,” Dean says, so softly she can barely hear it. “I guess not. And that’s on me. But I’ll...” She never learns what it is he’ll do.

“Where are you going?”

“To get breakfast. Burger King stops serving at ten-thirty, sharp.” She can hear him, moving away and up, climbing the stairs. “Crowley’s off the table. We’ll talk about Rowena when I get back. Just...keep an eye on my mom. Watch _Miami Vice_ or something.” His voice is almost gone now. “ _Not_ the shitty Colin Farrell movie!”

Mary waits what she hopes is a respectable amount of time before walking in. She’s always been good at masking her emotions, at least before last night, so she calls on that skill now. “Good morning, Cas,” she says, to the tense line of Cas’ back. He’s in his coat again. He turns at her greeting, but his smile is forced.

“Mary.”

“I heard voices. Everything okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. Everything...everything’s, uh, A-OK.”

“Good. Where’s Dean?”

“Getting breakfast. Apparently the restaurant has very strict time limits.”

She waits for him to comment on her outfit, but he doesn’t. Then again, he seems to have exactly one set of clothes,  and he usually looks like he stepped out of a wind tunnel, so maybe it’s just not a thing angels pay attention to. The incantation bowl and knife box have been put away. In their place, another large book and…

“Is that an ice pick?”

He glances down. “Um. Yeah. Kind of.”

He doesn’t offer any more information, and she doesn’t press. “Thank you,” Mary says, after realizing that they’re staring at each other. He doesn’t seem bothered by it. “For the...whatever you did. No dreams.”

His smile is genuine this time. “I’m glad.”

“Dean’s very lucky. To have you as a friend.”

His face regains some of the impassive quality it had until last night. “We’ve been through...much together. Sam, too. They’re both remarkable men. If I can help them in any way, I will.”

The words are powerful, but it’s the way he says them that arrests her. There’s blood there, though whose, she couldn’t say.

She frowns. “That’s nice,” she says. “Dean certainly likes you.”

“I...yes. Would you like a coffee?”

It’s a clumsy deflection. Her first instinct is to let it drop. Asking questions makes her tired, like each one empties her out faster than answers can fill her up again. But.

“You don’t think he likes you?”

Cas freezes on his way to the kitchen like he’s received an electric shock. “I think,” he says, without turning around, “that Dean has a strong sense of family, and he’s accepted me as part of his. I try to be worthy of the inclusion. In whatever capacity.” His shoulders slump a little. “Especially since...my own family regards me with loathing.”

“Why?”

“A multitude of reasons. Most of them justified.”

“You’ve done bad things.”

He turns to face her. “I am a creature of wrath and violence. I think you understand that, instinctively. But.” He swallows, and he’s the wide-eyed penitent in the desert again, open and sweet, and waiting to be hurt. “I...I would hope...would hope you also understand that’s not all I am. It’s not who I want to be.”

It makes the blood sing in her ears. They watch each other, and the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She feels like he can see right through her. She feels alive and raw as an exposed nerve. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah. Same here.”

“Mary,” he says slowly, fixing his gaze on her. There’s the sound of trumpets, though that’s probably in her head. “If I were to ask a favor of you, would you be willing to do it without telling Dean?”

“What kind of favor?”

He looks down at the table and she follows his line of sight to the ice pick. “The potentially unpleasant kind.” He glances back up to her. “Unpleasant for me, not for you. Or Dean.”

“I think Dean would be upset with me if I hurt you.”

His mouth grows thin. “Pray,” he says.

“What?”

“Pray to me. Now.”

She continues to stare at him, stupefied.

“I’ll go in the kitchen. Ask me for something. Silently.”

“Cas...”

“Castiel,” he says. He has the ice pick in his hand.  “It’s Castiel. Please. Just...try it. I want to test a theory.”

“Okay,” she says, dutifully bowing her head and clasping her hands. Her prayer is short and halting, embarrassed. She asks for coffee with whiskey in it.

Nothing happens. She opens her eyes.

“Cas?”

“Uh...again. Pray again. Use my full name.” His voice sounds strained.

“But…”

“Please.”

Again she bows her head. Her heart pounds.

She hears a muffled groan, and her resolve breaks. She walks into the kitchen, and gasps into her clenched fist.

“Cas! Your eye.”

He’s sitting raggedly in a kitchen chair, breathing like it hurts. He holds up his hand. “I’ve almost got it,” he says. There’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead.

“Stop!” Her stomach pitches dangerously, and she’s glad it’s empty.

“I can’t. I’ve _almost_ got it.” He grips the handle of the ice pick again, and a trickle of red runs down his cheek, a stigmata tear. 

“Please,” she pleads. “Wait.”

“We have to find Sam.”

“And we will,” she says. Now it’s her turn to kneel beside him. “But not like this. You’re hurting yourself.” She grabs his wrist.

“So?”

“This could kill you.”

“The risk is…”

“Minimal.” He starts at that. “But I would never ask my boys to destroy themselves, not even to save each other. Not even to save me.”

“You don’t think they’d take a bullet for each other? For you?”

“I do,” she says, gently. “But that’s not what this is. This isn’t someone else pulling the trigger. This is you putting the gun in your mouth.” 

The tension seems to bleed out of him all at once.

“Please,” she says. _Just stop_ , she thinks, ardently, over and over, the sentiment honed finer than a blade. The clock ticks loudly on the wall and the words become a litany.

Something in his face breaks, or clears. It’s difficult to tell. “Okay,” he says, and his voice is even rougher than usual. “I’ll stop.” He takes a deep breath. “You should look away now.”

Mary closes her eyes and rests her head against his knee. She hears the moment when the ice pick dislodges, and when he sets it down. She stands without a word. She draws hot water from the tap, dampens a clean cloth. “Look at me,” she says, and he does. She wipes the blood from his face, calm and slow--she remembers this, how to do this--and he looks at her like she’s performing a miracle. “There,” she says.  She cleans off the ice pick.

“Thank you.”

“I’m not going to tell Dean,” Mary says, as she washes her hands. She’ll have to burn the cloth. “Because I’m pretty sure it would break his heart.” A revelation from nowhere, but she knows it’s true.

She glances over her shoulder to find herself still being watched. He nods, but says nothing. “What?”

“It got through, your prayer. I heard you.”

She hears a door being unlocked overhead. She rests her hand on Cas’ face.

“Good,” she says. “Remember it, whenever you feel the urge to do something like that again. Now,” she says, “Let’s go have some breakfast.”

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhh, I don't even know, honestly.


End file.
